


this is not an exercise

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Introspection, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12099606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: (and nobody gets out alive)Rhaella would have fled Westeros with her children, but it seems as though the gods have already chosen her fate. 'Aerys is dead, Rhaegar is gone...but she is still alive. There is still a chance for her, a possibility that she can forge a new life – not only for herself, but for the children she still has left to her.'





	this is not an exercise

The wind howls in her ears, and the waves lap roughly against the ships docked in the bay, the last of the Targaryen fleet. A miserable storm is brewing, one which might just resemble the agony she feels within her heart. All those years since Aegon first arrived, and the Targaryen dynasty has been destroyed so easy, so quickly. It is as if it never existed at all. 

"Aerys is dead?" she repeats, already aware the answer shall be a resounding yes.

No love has ever been shared between her and the man she calls brother, husband and father to her children. Perhaps once she felt something similar to affection whenever she looked at Aerys, but as the years have passed that has lessened, to the point where her heart holds nothing but contempt for him. Even now, upon hearing of his death she does not mourn him, does not think to grieve for the man he had become. Rhaella thinks perhaps she might mourn slightly for the brother who had once crowned her with a ring of flowers when they were children, a brother who was full of wonder, and an eagerness that had disappeared so very swiftly, even before Summerhall, even before Duskendale.

Ser Willem nods in lieu of a reply, the wind roaring around them. Her golden crown, commissioned especially for her in one of Aerys' rare displays of tenderness, feels heavy on her head, wrong, even after so many years of wearing it _._ Despite the wind swirling around them, she does not feel cold. She feels nothing other than the kick of the babe against her hand, resting gently against her high, swollen belly. _In death there is always life_ , she reminds herself, rubbing soothing circles against the fabric of her dress. With Aerys gone this babe shall be the last she ever has, a final triumph after so much pain and loss. It shall live, even if its father is gone from this world. A Targaryen, born on Dragonstone. What could be more fitting?

She inhales, and murmurs, “Then I am no longer queen.”

But still a mother - even even if Rhaegar is gone. The loss of her oldest son has devastated her, had caused her to weep for so long she feared her eyes would fall out and the babe within her would die from grief.  Aerys' death might not have been a shock (for a ruling king shall always face the threat of being deposed in times of war, mad or not) but Rhaegar's had. She had thought her son would be her salvation, the saving grace of a family led by a man who had become so embittered and distrusting it threatened to ruin them all. And it had ruined Rhaegar, the son who had grown taller than her and had become a father twice over before Viserys had celebrated his sixth nameday.

Rhaegar is gone, but she is still a mother.

There is some comfort to be found in that, she thinks, as she draws her hand away from her belly to carefully lift the crown away from her head, the object a heavy weight as it rests across both of her palms. Rhaella had never wanted to be queen. It had been the will of her father that she marry Aerys, and so she had complied like the dutiful daughter everyone said she was. But even when they wed Rhaella had never thought about becoming queen, had never thought it a possibility before Summerhall occurred and so many of her family were lost to the flames. She had still not believed it when she gave birth to Rhaegar as the castle burned behind her, not even when a crown had been placed on her head, Aerys standing beside her and squeezing her hand a little too tightly. Being the queen has brought her nothing but sorrow disguised as duty, this very crown chaining her to a lifetime of torment and disappointment. There is no point in mourning the loss of something she never wanted, mourning a husband she never loved.

Aerys is dead, Rhaegar is gone...but she is still alive. There is still a chance for her, a possibility that she can forge a new life – not only for herself, but for the children she still has left to her. So many have died, but she is alive, and Viserys and the babe inside her need her now more than ever.

Rhaella places the crown securely into her trunk, relief overwhelming her as she does so. She’ll never wear it again, but that does not mean it cannot still be of use to her. She would have loved nothing more than to throw it into the sea, but she must be wise now, pragmatic, if she wishes to survive. And a crown crafted out of pure gold and decorated with the finest jewels will always be worth something.

Perhaps Viserys shall wear it, when he is old enough for the crown to fit properly. He is the true king, after all.

–--

Rhaella makes plans as quickly as she can, mindful that the rapid swelling of her belly severely limits her options. She can either leave Dragonstone before the babe is born, and risk giving birth on a ship, far away from any proper assistance, or she can wait until the babe is born. But that option presents its own risks.

The realm and its new king, Steffon’s eldest son, may have forgotten about the Targaryens safe on Dragonstone for the time being, appeased by the deaths of Rhaegar and Aerys, of poor little Aegon and Rhaenys and even sweet Elia. Her good-daughter had not deserved to die, had not deserved the pain Rhaegar bestowed upon her when Elia had been his wife and the mother of his children. Elia was a Martell, not a Targaryen, but she had been murdered nonetheless – raped, like Rhaella had been so many times by a brother who reeked of smoke, and cut in half like an _animal_. If Rhaella was able to, she would have taken a sword in hand and slit the throats of those who had dared hurt her grandchildren and sweet good-daughter.

But then, she had never fought against Aerys, not even when she feared he would kill her. She could have killed him as he slept, exhausted from his rage, exhausted from inflicting pain onto her. She should have killed him as he slept. He wouldn’t have suffered, and she may have died for her treason, but it would have saved the realm so much pain. If she killed him, Rhaegar would still be alive, and what a wonderful king her son would be.

Robert Baratheon, who she can only remember as the cheerful, adventurous eldest son of her cousin, is currently appeased, having crushed Rhaegar’s chest in himself. But she knows a time will come when he remembers the existence of another rightful Targaryen heir - perhaps even two, if the babe growing inside her is a boy. They must be gone by then, before he remembers and seeks them out. There is no other option, no other path for her to take. She must flee Westeros or she will die, and if it were only her perhaps she might choose death, might surrender herself to the sea. She had so often contemplated leaping from the Maiden Vault, letting her body fall and surrendering herself to the oblivion that surely must be death.

But it is not only her she must think of. It is for Viserys and the babe that she must live, for who can protect them better than their own mother? She had tried her best to keep Viserys from the knowledge of what his father had become, had given Rhaegar her blessing before he left her sight for what would be the last time, had prayed desperately that he might live. She had failed in both instances, for Viserys had seen her bruises, had seen his father’s madness, and Rhaegar had been dead before his body even fell into the Trident. She will not fail her children again...she _cannot_ fail them again.

What remains of the Targaryen fleet is still docked in the bay, awaiting her command. Most of the ships are unmanned - but she only needs one ship, only needs Ser Willem, Viserys and her handmaiden to accompany her as she begins her new life. Everything else can be acquired in Braavos. She will sell her now-meaningless crown if necessary, if only to provide for her children. It has no use now, not when a new queen shall soon be crowned. Ser Willem tells her that Robert’s bride is to be Joanna’s daughter, the girl Twyin had offered for Rhaegar. Rhaella shall soon hold no sway in Westeros, but she does not mind. Power has long since lost its appeal, and the taste of it has become bitter, ashes in her mouth.  

She runs a hand over her belly, head resting on a pillow as she attempts to allow the waves lapping against the castle to lull her to sleep. Viserys stirs slightly beside her, but a soft hand over his brow soothes him back to sleep once more. How she had so longed for more children after Rhaegar's birth – a sentiment the gods had not seemed to return, for they seemingly found delight in depriving her of more children time and time over. But she must not think of those babes now, must not sadden herself by the thought of so many unnecessary losses, not when she still has Viserys beside her and a new babe almost ready to be born.

Baelor for a boy, she has decided, and Daenerys for a girl. Perhaps now she shall finally have a girl, the daughter she has so longed for after Shaena was lost to her. There had been a time after Rhaegar's birth she had thought it impossible for her to conceive another child. She had been so very young when Rhaegar was born, having only first flowered a year or so before her father ordered her to marry her brother. Rhaella had even thought that perhaps the tragedy of Summerhall had cursed her to be barren, to only have Rhaegar to love. And then when Shaena had kicked in her womb after she had awoken so often to a bloody bed and an ache in her stomach, Rhaella had nearly wept with joy. She had laboured an entire day and night to birth her, but the pain had been worth the possibility of holding another babe in her arms after so many lost chances. But Shaena had been lost to her before she had even been born, had not wailed upon her entry into the world, and had never opened her eyes to see those of her mother.

This babe shall not be another Shaena, shall not be another child who never thrives. It kicks gently if as to remind her of its presence, and Rhaella smiles gently, shifting further down the bed to make another attempt at sleep before the dawn breaks and Viserys wakes her.

But sleep never comes.

She closes her eyes, listens to Viserys' slow but steady breathing, and attempts to doze, but a searing, familiar pain jolts her awake, the bed wet underneath her. She inhales sharply, murmurs a quick prayer to the Mother, and jostles Viserys awake, telling him to run and fetch her handmaiden and the maester thankfully still in residence in the castle. Once her son has disappeared through the door, she heaves herself out of the bed and rids herself of her shift, bundling her hair high on her head. The pains are sharp, but not rapid. She has birthed enough babes to know the process shall be long, and the sun shall most likely rise and fall before she has a new babe in her arms. Perhaps the storm which has been brewing for months, ever since she was told of Aerys’ death, shall finally break and her babe shall arrive amidst thunder and rain.

Ser Willem accompanies her handmaiden and the maester, Viserys lingering in the doorway. She beckons him closer to her, Rhaella now standing in a clean shift, and places a tender kiss on his brow. “Ser Willem,” she murmurs, “will you take Viserys back to bed?” He nods, motioning forward, but Viserys shakes his head.

“No!” her son exclaims, shrugging out of Ser Willem's hold. “I have to stay with you,” he tells her, silver curls falling over his forehead, into his eyes. It has been so long since his hair was cut. It is now almost as long as Rhaegar's had been, long and silver and oh so very beautiful. She cannot bring herself to cut it. “I have to be with you, I have to protect you.”

Rhaella swallows past the lump in her throat, attempts to quell the sadness that has arisen upon the reminder of just how quickly her son has been forced to grow up. “And you will. All I want is for you to go and get some more sleep so that when the time comes you can be with me, you can protect me. I promise,” she murmurs, a hand coming to rest on either side of his cheeks, “that when the time comes I will summon you.” She offers him what she thinks is a soothing smile, despite the pain in her belly. “I cannot do this without you. My sweet, brave boy, you shall be with me when it matters the most, and for that I thank you.”

“You promise?” her son queries, and in his eyes she can see an echo of Rhaegar’s desperation to be reassured that what he was doing was the right thing, that he was correct in wedding the Stark girl - that she agreed in his need for a third child. Her reassurance then had been false, for how could she truly tell her son he was doing the right thing, when he had placed them all in danger. This time it is true.

“I promise,” she reiterates, smoothing down Viserys’ hair. “Now, let Ser Willem take you back to bed, so you can be ready when the time comes.” Viserys nods, leaning into her touch. He lets Ser Willem take his hand and lead him out of the room, but he looks back all the while, concern etched into his brow.

Her handmaiden helps her back onto the bed, Rhaella inhaling sharply as another wave of pain rolls through. This shall be the last time she gives birth, and already it seems as if the experience is to be her most painful one yet. It will be worth it though, when she holds her babe in her arms, when she introduces Viserys to his sibling, when she lives out the rest of days somewhat safe with the children left to her. All the pain, all the suffering, all the anguish… it will be worth it.

\--- 

She does not summon Viserys until she is certain her time is near, thunder rumbling outside her window. Her son is quick to take her hand, and she tries not to squeeze it too hard as the pain overwhelms her. The maestar is knelt between her legs, and she can see the red blood on his hands. She tries to convince herself that a little blood during childbirth is normal, tries to remember all the times she has been in the birthing bed and survived… but something about this time is different. This babe was conceived after Aerys burnt Chelsted, the only man who dared to defy him and paid the price for such defiance. This babe is Aerys’ final gift to her, and so Rhaella suspects that whilst the babe may live, she will die. Her brother’s final act of cruelty, tearing her away from her children, ensuring she will never see them grow as she did their brother.

The babe wails loudly as it enters the world, and Rhaella manages a smile, loosening her grip on Viserys’ hand. “A daughter, your grace,” her handmaiden pronounces, leaning forward to allow Rhaella a quick glance at her bloodied, squalling _daughter_ before beginning to clean her.

“Daenerys,” she pronounces, the words thick in her mouth. “Her name is to be Daenerys.” But the only one who takes any notice of her words is Viserys, her son nodding, excitement in his eyes. He knows their history, knows their practice of wedding brother to sister. And now, here is a sister, the bride she had been unable to provide Rhaegar with, to Aerys’ annoyance. But she would not have that archaic, terrible custom happen to her children, even if they are the last Targaryens left.  

She wants to ask why no one has acknowledged her, why Ser Willem has not rushed off to announce the birth to the small retinue that remains at Dragonstone, but then she see the blood coating the maester’s hands, sees the worry in the man’s eyes, and she understands. She is to die after all. Perhaps she was always meant to die. If Aerys had not sent her and Viserys away, then they surely would had died alongside, Rhaella perhaps butchered in the same manner sweet Elia was. Or perhaps they would have let her live, married her off and killed the babe in her belly so she could bear some lord children. Perhaps she would have become Rhaella Lannister, or Rhaella Tully, forced once more to do her duty.

But no, she will die Rhaella Targaryen. And she will do one last thing, before she passes from this word.

“Ser Willem!” she cries, eyes darting around the room. “Please, if you would. My crown, in the trunk… please hand it to me.”

Fumbling somewhat, she manages to place the crown on Viserys’ head, the object far too big for him. The sight would be comical, Rhaella suspects, if it weren’t so very tragic. Gods, but she does not want to die. She does not want Viserys to have to bear the weight of their dynasty, when her son is only eight. She does not want her daughter to grow up bereft of a mother, does not want Ser Willem to have to care for her children, not when he is not likely to live to see Viserys become a man. She would weep for the injustice of it all, for finally she is free, free from Aerys at last, only to die. But she is tired, so very tired, and it is all she can do to take her son’s hand.

“Viserys, listen to me,” she murmurs, voice soft. She can feel the blood leaking out of her, despite the maester’s attempts to subdue it. Her son looks at her, and Rhaella forces herself to smile.

“You are king now,” she tells him. Truthfully, her son has been king for months, since Twyin’s son saw fit to kill Aerys. If only he had seen fit to do so months earlier, then this whole mess could have possibly been avoided. Her son is king, but there is no throne for him to take, no supporters loyal to their cause besides Ser Willem and the situation far too dangerous to attempt a coup. Who would support a child, over a proven warrior? “They have crowned Robert Baratheon, but you Viserys, you are the true king. I give you my crown, and with it, the Targaryen dynasty.”

“Moth-” Viserys begins, but the presence of her handmaiden prevents him from continuing. Her daughter, Daenerys, is placed down gently beside her, her violet eyes wide in her tiny face. Her presence is ample distraction, Viserys immediately captivated by her. Rhaella tries her best to offer Daenerys a smile, but she fears the action might appear more like a grimace, her body screaming in agony.  

“What are our words?” she asks Viserys, desperate. There is so much to tell him, so much to say… but there is no time. She can only hope Ser Willem proves more capable than she has. Viserys has not yet answered, so she grips his wrist tightly, the babe resting between them. She does not wish to hurt him, but this is important.

“Fire and blood,” Viserys tells her timidly, gaze downcast at his wrist. She lets go immediately, regret flooding her veins.  

She inhales, nodding. “Fire and blood,” she repeats, falling back against the pillows. She stretches an arm out to right the crown on Viserys’ head, cupping his cheek tenderly. “Be patient,” she tells him. His skin is so very soft under her hand, proof of his youth. She does not want to leave him. She does not want to leave the babe, her long-awaited Daenerys. “Protect your sister.”

The last thing she hears is the sound of thunder. The last thing she thinks is - _it will be nice to see Rhaegar again._  

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE RHAELLA TARGARYEN SO MUCH (can you tell?) 
> 
> I've been working on this for ages now, and I'm finally happy with it. There's just so much I wanted to cover, so much I wanted to explore in regards to relationships and feelings. Here Rhaella is, finally free of Aerys... only to die after giving birth to his child. If that doesn't scream unfair, I don't know what does. She deserved so so so much better, and honestly, someone should have stuck a sword through Aerys years before Jaime did. Like c'mon, take one for the team man. 
> 
> P.S. The wiki says Rhaella crowned Viserys shortly after Aerys' death, but I'm sticking to my idea. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
